


so sharpen your teeth

by bornundersaturn



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad (Terrible) Communication, Bondage, Caleb Widogast levels of self hatred and self loathing, Choking, Corporal Punishment, Dissociation, F/M, Frottage, General warning for Caleb's headspace, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort (eventually), Hypersexuality, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-PTSD, Sadomasochism, Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Switching, Tail Sex, Under negotiated consent, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Very big not so good misunderstandings, erotic asphyxiation, extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms, more like a crash and burn, past modify memory spell use, that resolves, the complete opposite of a slow burn, under negotiated kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornundersaturn/pseuds/bornundersaturn
Summary: “It was only supposed to be the one time.Justthe one time. A mistake he made at the bottom of a glass. And it should have stayed buried in Trostenwald-- itshouldhave-- but it didn't.It never does.”orCaleb fucked Molly within 24 hours of meeting him; the AU.





	1. broken crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Tommy for betaing this story. <3
> 
> Fic title is a lyric from- "Pacifico" by Ugly Casanova
> 
> _"By the time that you were through with me_  
>  I had to take a bath  
> So sharpen your teeth  
> Or lay flat."

It happened that first night that they had been ordered to stay in the Nestled Nook Inn. Carefully instructed not to leave Trostenwald and to await some form of an investigation or trial. Told that if they fled, the Watchmaster himself would call down the might of the Cerberus Assembly onto all of them (a feat which Caleb is _still_ skeptical of, but entirely unwilling to test). 

It happened less than twenty-four hours after he met that disastrous whirlwind of color and fabric-- and maybe that's _pathetic_ on his part. 

That night, after the fiasco in the main circus tent, left to their own devices in the belly of the tavern, with the others wandering off to find sleep as the night drawn into the witching hours; the tiefling had eyed him from across the table. And Caleb had tried his damndest to focus on his work, tried to keep his attention solely on padding out his spellbook again, but those eyes had dug mercilessly into him. 

And he had been tired, rung out, the image of fire in his skull, and the desire to erase it, a boon. He had turned to drinking it away, dousing the flames in alcohol-- but of course, that only made it worse. And when Molly, who was already well into his drinks as well, had stumbled over, nearly fallen into his lap, and pushed his book to the side with a feral grin, who was he to protest a distraction? 

There are only flashes of memories left from the encounter anyways. Yet, it's difficult not to think back to it while he is laying in bed, staring up at an empty ceiling, and trying to catch sleep that he knows he won't find. Not after everything that happened today.

It's a mess of sloppy steps in his head; of lips, clumsy with alcohol against his own, of heated fingers tangled in his hair. The dragging of sharpened claws over his scalp until he had moaned, low and wanton. It's the smell of salt and sweat, of blood where nails raked into him alongside teeth, and the bruising grip of fingers around his neck that he still can't remember begging for.

He remembers slamming Molly into the wall, devouring the wanting column of his throat, dragging his teeth over that splash of color creeping up his neck. Remembers his trousers pooled around his ankles, both of them still half-clothed from the waist up. Him, holding Molly's arm behind his back with one hand, and bracing himself on the desk he had folded the tiefling over it with the other. 

He remembers fucking him on that dingy, little desk, too. 

Remembers the sound of the tiefling's whining mewls beneath him, the stench of alcohol as intoxicating as the reek of sex. Remembers pushing Molly's arm up and up, until his shoulder nearly popped, remembers that he kept it on the edge of dislocation and right in the realm of painful. Fucked Molly right through the whimpers that turned to whining keens; hunched over him instead of stopping, curled his fingers around the other’s cock. Pushed Molly’s face down into the oak surface until he groaned, pulled him up by his hair, and slammed him back into it with the crack of bone against wood. Listened to the delighted huff of laughter from him, reveled in the tiefling clenching around him. Worked his fist over that weeping cock-- thrusted desperately into that tight heat beneath him until he--

“Caleb?” 

He startles at the questioning hum of his name, the ceiling snapping back into focus above him. 

“Ja,” he finally manages around the choking stampede of his heart, blinking and shaking his head-- feeling as momentarily confused as if emerging from a dream.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Nott asks from her perch at the end of the bed.

Caleb listens to the intermittent, creaking groans of the inn room settling around them. Rolls his gaze to the window and the spill of moonlight across the floorboards. “...maybe.” 

“Did you-- do you need a drink?” She sits up, fumbling for her flask, and he knows she'll keep offering more things-- asking more questions, until he's better.

“ _No_ ,” Caleb sighs, sitting up as well. He doesn't want-- no, he doesn't _deserve_ her attention right now. “I am fine, Nott.” 

Caleb gets to his feet when she says nothing more, pulling on his discarded coat and heading for the door. He hunches under her continued scrutiny and ignores the quiet question of his name as he leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind him and he sighs; a heavy, weary thing that does nothing for the tension in his shoulders. 

There's a moment where he contemplates a few courses of action. 

Drinking until he's vomiting up this feeling, and waking up the next morning with a pounding ache in his skull. The tantalizing promise of a poison that will _hopefully_ numb everything, only a single staircase away.

Or; crawling into bed with someone-- _anyone_ \-- stop thinking for a few hours, and hope they're just as fucked up as he is. That they won't question it too much if he suddenly asks them to choke him until he's blacking out. That they won't leave when he begs them to kick him like a _dog_. That they'll beat him until something _shatters_ , make it so it's all he can think about while they fuck him. That they'll let him hurt them too-- numb his mind with the ease of inflicting pain-- of an act close enough to torture it's _familiar_ \-- and let him sink into the terrible, awful, _enticing_ satisfaction of it. 

He contemplates Molly for a terrible moment-- for a _fraction_ of a second-- and turns to descend the stairs. 

Slides into one of the chairs below, palms a handful of silvers onto the table, and waits. He spares the tavern hand half a glance before snatching up the trost she drops onto the table. Proceeding to systematically drown himself in the bottom of enough of them, he finally stops thinking about it for a few moments-- until he's sure he won't dream at least. And if he does, he hopefully won't remember them.  
Another is placed on the table and he reflexively reaches for it again, doesn't even think about which family made this brew-- Baumbach, maybe the other two, whatever the hell their beef is with each other here. He doesn't care. As long as it does it's job. 

He knows he shouldn't be doing this. That they need to go fiend hunting tomorrow. That he's somehow become roped up in this little group and their mystery. But maybe if they solve this case, free the ringleader from the stockades, the purple tiefling will go back to the circus, and he won't have to deal with the way things went today ever again. Where Molly had constantly hovered around him, almost trying to garner his attention again. And when he had collapsed in the back of the cart, after the second run in with those undead abominations, he hadn't expected Molly to be back there too. It had been easy to ignore him this time around though, turning to his spellbook, and pretending like he wasn't entirely intrigued by the memory of his hand around the other’s throat. 

Even later, it had been a mental effort on his part to turn down a second offer-- to decline and turn in for the night with Nott instead. The others were seemingly none the wiser to the first affair, _somehow_ , and entirely not privy to the second proposition. Molly is touchy by nature, sidling close, casually brushing shoulders with them all, and draping himself over others isn't out of character from what Caleb's seen, in the small margin of time time he's known the tiefling. They probably didn't notice… _hopefully._

Either way, all of this is a constant standing reminder of how royally he's managed to fuck himself in such a short amount of time. 

He stares into the cup, refilled for the nth time tonight, and, impossibly, he still sees lavender under his hands, still hears pain under his fingers. And without the blanket of _want_ covering his mind, it is all a question of _why_. Head pillowed in his arms on the table, he wonders why he can't just _not_. 

There's the sudden loud, groaning shriek of a chair being pulled out and he jolts up from his rest, blinking stupidly at the small goblin now sat across from him. Her frown speaks far louder than her silence. 

“You know how--” He slurs, propping himself up on the table with an elbow, burying his face in his hand, “you know how you get an itch?” 

“Yeah?” She tilts her head, eyeing him.  

Caleb sighs, dropping his forehead to the table with a dull thunk. It does nothing for the thoughts of lavender and fangs-- for the nauseous parts of him. “I, ah… well, I get one sometimes too.” 

It's quiet for a terribly long moment.

Nott shifts in her chair, and he's afraid she'll leave-- that he conjured her-- that his addled mind, so desperate for some kind of reassurance, it's snapped a phantom of her into existence to soothe hi-- 

“For what?” 

He laughs; a sloppy, drunken thing that rattles in his chest. “... I am not-- I'm not sure anymore.” 

He wants a lot of things. Sex, pain, pleasure, something-- _anything_ to make him stop thinking for a few goddamn minutes. Just a few minutes of silence-- that's all he needs-- it's all he ever wants--

“Oh… well… is it like me having to-- to, ah, collect things?” 

If by collecting things she means scars and bruises, or the purpling outlines of stranger's fingers pressed into every inch of his skin, then yes. Or, that even when they fade, he doesn't forget where they were. He doesn't forget their faces, he doesn't forget their words, he _can't_ forget any of them-- even the ones he would rather bury. 

Caleb’s brow scrunches. “Nein-- no, maybe? I haven't-- I do not… I don't know.”

“Is it--? If you don't scratch it,” she asks, brow pinched as well, “is it painful?” 

“Ja,” He swallows heavily, avoiding her eyes and swirling the drink in his cup.   “Ja… sometimes.” 

“What helps when you can't uh--” He glances up in time to see the broad gesture made at him. “You know-- do whatever it is.” 

He holds up his glass as his only answer, takes another long drag of spirits-- it's only part of the truth. The only truth she needs to know, at least.

“Oh.”

“I imagine it is the same for you.” He points to the flask she's clutching and she pulls it closer, tucks it back into her cloaks. 

“Sort of…” she starts, watching him reach for his own tankard again, “I suppose.” 

He holds a hand up for another round, knowing full well he should probably stop at this point. But it's really hard to care about that when he _still_ wants to stumble into anyone's sheets he can find and beg them to pull him apart-- or let him do so to them in turn. 

Nott clears her throat, drawing his attention back to where she shifts in her seat, fiddling with the mask resting around her neck like a collar. It's late enough it doesn't really matter if she wears it.

“The past few days have been a bit of a shit show haven't they?” 

Caleb takes a drink, mulling it over a moment before nodding. “They have.” 

“But… we found people. Isn't that what you said you wanted to do?” 

Sort of. She knows half of the reason he crawls into towns with her. The other half he's careful to keep as far removed from her as he can. 

“I did.” He nods. “Allies can be… they can be useful. But they can also hurt us, Nott.” 

The goblin doesn't say anything for a moment, hands wringing atop the table. 

“You know… maybe-- maybe we can trust them, Caleb,” Nott starts, almost nervously. “They don't seem like bad people. Maybe sticking with the them, helping them solve this whole mystery, isn't such a bad idea?” 

He laughs, shaking his head at the absurdity of the statement. 

“That is, ah,…it--” Caleb leans forward, stares into his nearly empty cup and wonders if he should drink more. 

“What?” 

“It is-- It's--” He shakes his head again, laughs, and it doesn't make much sense to him anymore either.  “Don't worry about it.” 

It's another few moments of him drinking until the glass runs dry as she watches him. Not once does he see her drink from her own flask, and he doesn't stop to consider why that might be. 

“Another round?” 

Caleb startles at the sudden reappearance of the tavern hand. He goes to say yes, to accept another helping of something to get him one step closer to blacked out, but Nott grabs his hand. 

“Caleb, it's late. Maybe we-- maybe we should head back to bed.” 

He nods, listing against the table-- blinking against the flickering waver of candlelight-- _‘It's late, Aldric.’ Mutti brushes his hair back, cups the side of his face, and whispers as fondly as she ever does,‘You should be in bed.’_

“Caleb?” 

He blinks again, tilting his head, staring emptily at the goblin staring right back at him. The beginnings of a lazy smile curl his lips when it clicks. He's _Caleb_ here-- to her, to himself now-- to all of them. He buried Bren-- buried Aldric-- under the ashes of a house-- _Fingers comb through his hair, soothing the wild tangles it always seems to wind itself into. There's his Mutti's voice, sonorous and lilting in his ear._

“Weißt du..., wie vie-- viel Sternlein...stehen…” He mutters, matching the singing in his head as he gets to his feet, the world swaying for a moment before settling. 

The fingers he's clinging onto pull him away from the table and away from his drink. Away from a forgetful promise… or towards one-- he's not sure. 

“An dem--” He stumbles, catching himself on a nearby table. “--blauen Himmelszelt.” 

“Caleb, come on, it's just a little further,”  Nott beckons and he follows, still humming under his breath. 

_Weißt du, wie viel Wolken gehen  
Weit hinüber alle Welt_

He can see his feet trudging up the stairs, feel the banister beneath his fingers, the way the bandages wound around his arms have slipped free. Thin, white scars decorate his forearm, but it's the bracelet of purple around his wrist, shaped like fingers, that draws his attention as he ascends.

_Lavender--like so many bruises beneath his fingers, matching bands of angry purple wrapped around his wrists, stained on his thighs, collared around his throat, tucked under his sternum--_

His shoulder strikes the wall, Nott still clinging to his hand-- warm and tangible, and her eyes look like little lights reflecting back up at him. Like candlelight on the edge of a side table, a book open on his lap, his mother beside him--

_Gott der Herr hat sie gezählet,  
Dass ihm auch nicht eines fehlet_

There's a mirror at the end of the hall and he makes the mistake of looking at himself. Dirt caked to his skin, hair slicked to his brow with sweat, cheeks gaunt, the bruises under his eyes deep enough he could hide secrets in them. 

_The small mirror hung at the end of the hall always mocks him when he has to traverse this corridor. Simple, plain-- as militaristic as most of the make of this place. He only ever gets a glimpse of himself in it before he has to turn to knock on Magister Ikithon's door anyways--_

_An der ganzen großen Zahl  
An der ganzen großen Zahl_

He catches himself on the door jamb, watches Nott swing the door wide as he lists against the frame-- 

_’Enter,’ the voice calls from within. The door creaking open on its own to reveal the familiar, shaded den of an office he knows as well as the dingy dorm the Academy provided him--_

“Come on.” Nott tugs on his hand and he follows easily, to the edge of of the single bed. “Up you go.”

She pushes at his leg until he relents, flopping onto the mattress with a drawn out sigh. He fumbles at his boots, manages to shed one, while Nott pulls the other free from the leg that's still hanging off the edge. Tossing it aside, she scrambles up beside him, pulls the sheets up to his shoulders, and tucks them in around him before sitting cross-legged on the bed. A hand cards through his hair and all he can hear is the hum of his Mutti's voice in his ear. 

“Caleb…” Nott breaks the quiet and he tilts his head to look up at her, “maybe, I can help with whatever it is if you tell me?” 

No, she can't. She wouldn't. He would never let her anyways. He could never let her taint herself with himself. With this broken, ever-wanting thing in his skull, that sends fire down his limbs when he would love to do anything else besides feed it. She wouldn't be willing to hurt him in all the ways he needs to be anyways. He doesn't answer her, just turns away and pulls the sheets up until they muff his ear. 

He can hear her reposition herself at the end of the bed and he clicks his fingers together, the quiet meow of Frumpkin answering him. The fey settles somewhere at his feet alongside her, and not up beside his arm like he might usually. Probably still disgruntled he was turned away earlier that night in the first place. Sometimes luxuries, like the grounding rumble of a cat's purring in his arms, or soft fur to card his fingers through, aren't his to have. 

Even now, he's both glad the familiar stayed away and on the verge of curling into a ball and clawing at his scalp until it all disappears. There's still the image, the need, the basest of desires coiled up in his gut and incessant; heavy where it sits. He just wants to sleep. A few minutes of sleep is all he's asking for at this point. 

Closing his eyes is a mistake. All he can see is the wanting expanse of a sweat-slicked back under his palm, the darkening lines painted across the shoulders where he knows he dug in too hard, the angry, crescent bruise of his teeth-- He shifts, pulling the sheets up higher, clenching his jaw with a frustrated sigh, and trying to will away the image, the sound, the smell, the memory. All of it nearly a dream where it's gone fuzzy at the edges. 

He wishes it was just a dream. A fantasy. But he just had to get involved with someone who is a part of the group he's stuck in...for now at least. That's dangerous. This can either end badly, or be an opportunity. Either way, it involves close proximity, and the closer any of the others get, the harder they might look. And he's not even sure what this Mollymauk Tealeaf categorized their encounter as. Hopefully, only a one night stand, a drunken, sloppy mistake. Detached, impersonal, a distraction. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He tries to close his eyes again-- and all he can hear is the breathy mewl of pleasure in his ear, feel fangs against his throat, hands curled over his shoulders, claws rending into him and tearing--

”Verpiss dich.” he murmurs to empty air as if it will do anything. 

He refuses to give himself the luxury of handling the unique situation in his pants right now. Not when Nott is right there. Not when he shouldn't-- when he _should_ be above the baser needs of his body. 

_‘Disgusting. Schlampe. Vile. Hure. Worthless. Hund.’_

Gods, he just wants to sleep. Just a few seconds of silence. He closes his eyes again-- 

_’Sometimes…’A calloused hand tilts his chin, fingers brushing over the bruise on his neck he knows Astrid left there. ‘You are nothing but a pathetic dog, Bren.’ The fingers move to dig into his cheeks, pinching until there's nothing he can do besides open his mouth. ‘And you would do well to learn who you are meant to heel for.’_

He pushes the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, bites down and swallows the distressed whine caught in his throat. Skin drawn tight, the incessant skitter of warmth swarming under his sinew like gnats he wants to scrape out with his nails. 

That Watchmaster-- He could-- The way that man had looked them all over in the tent; stern eyes, stern lips, stern features, slightly jaundiced skin. The accent is wrong, the voice is _wrong_ , but it's familiar enough, it's close enough-- Gods, it's close enough that he knows it would snap him back into that empty, thoughtless headspace for a few hours. 

_Nein_. No. No, he's fine. It's fine. He can ignore it. He just needs to focus on something else, anything else. Spells, maybe-- Dancing Lights; child's play of an incantation. Components; a glow worm placed in the center of his palm. Used to light up areas and rooms he, otherwise, would be blind in-- adding an ambience to the air with the soft, pale oranges...like candlelight and the flames from a hearth dancing across naked skin-- 

He wonders if the Watchmaster would be a more silent, hands-off type at first. If the man would sit in a chair, switch in hand, and watch him; panting and pathetic, kneeled on the floor, and fucking into his own fist. If the man would bend him over his desk, once he came with the wrong name on his lips, smother him into it, and fuck into him like he's _nothing_. If there would be heated breaths grunted in his ear, sweat slick between them, and Caleb can't help but imagine what he might look like writhing beneath the man's calloused, grounding hands--

He sits up, glancing down to the foot of the bed where Nott’s breathing has evened out, Frumpkin curled up beside her, the fey staring right at him. 

“Stay with her,” He whispers to the cat, sliding out of the sheets, ignoring his discarded coats and boots. He won't be gone for long, anyways. 

The buzz in his skull makes the world sway for a moment, heart tamping away in his chest, and he catches himself on the doorframe, glancing back over his shoulder to Frumpkin who's still just watching him. He leaves, shame hot on the back of his neck and sliding down to mingle with the rest of the heat mercilessly clawing away at his insides. Slinks down the hall, bare feet against the grain of hardwood making his skin crawl even more, until finally he reaches the privy. Shuts the door behind him, feels for all the world like some skulking teenager sneaking around where he shouldn't. 

He sits down and stares at the door, pants entirely too tight right now. It's nearly four in the morning. No one in their right mind is awake. It's not like he would be able to find anyone anyways. He just has to handle this himself. 

He shimmies himself free, the touch of chilled air against his cock sending him wincing, but it's not about to halt his progress here. He has to get this shit out of his system, or else he'll spend the whole night staring at the ceiling and thinking about it. It's just-- it--  

_‘Bringen wir es hinter uns, ja?’_

He wraps a hand around himself and the relieved whine from his lips is immediate. Works himself over slowly at first, spit not the most comfortable aid, but the friction burns up in his gut all too pleasantly. He brings his other hand up to smother the pathetic noises trying to escape him, teeth digging into the meat of his palm. Huffing, hips jerking forward, he brushes his thumb over the head, and smears the collection of precum to mingle with drying saliva on his way back down. 

He sinks into the spiral of sensation, thoughts snapping into mindless drivel; imagines the Watchmaster working him over, the feverish bite of a switch harsh across his shoulders. Fingers pick up their pace, hips jerking in time with his hand on his cock. He thinks about what lavender fingers would look like curled around him instead, sliding up and down, warm and unmistakable, or the hot press of a tongue against him. About the clouting, fire-sharp beat of a whip into his back-- the tang of iron on his tongue-- of lips, molten and pliable around him. Fingers digging into his neck-- looking down and seeing crimson eyes looking back up at him under saline-wet clumped lashes. He whines, the rush of blood in his ear a siren's call, fire snapping up his spine, toes curling and thighs trembling. Imagines teeth in his shoulder-- hands on his hips, claws dragging over then-- heat around him, _inside_ him, and--

He comes with a strangled cry that he muffles against the flat of his hand. Slumps with a groan against the hardwood slats of the wall beside him, chest heaving, shivering, sweat sliding down his back like the chilling drag of age-roughened fingers. 

The sated relaxation of it all only lasts a moment, a blissful suspension of time where he stares up at the ceiling and the dance of colors in his peripherals-- and then the immediate flood of nausea sends him heaving. Gut spasming, head pounding, he folds over himself, and tries to think about anything else besides the fact he did it again. 

_‘Control yourself, Bren.’_

It's a few, lung rattling moments before he composes himself, rapid breaths fading into calmer inhales and slower exhales, as he scrapes everything back together into some semblance of functional. Leans back against the wall when he's done, panting and rung out-- _tired_ … and he _is_ at least tired now. Everything is a bit duller, a tad more controllable. Not as much is clattering around and lost on rotting tethers in his head. It's not as satisfying as it could be, but it's enough. It's _just_ enough. 

He fumbles around for a ratty cloth, cleans up what he can of himself and any evidence, scrunches it up, and shoves it as far into his pocket as he can. He'll burn it later anyways. Stands on wobbly legs once he's sure the flush to his face has died down, and the slide of crimson beads down his wrist draw his attention. He hisses in a sharp breath at the sight of weeping teeth marks dug into his palm. 

“Scheiße.” 

Systematically, _mechanically_ , he unravels the already skewed and fallen bandages, hanging lifeless around his elbows. Redresses them quickly, and ignores the bruises painted on his skin, or the blossom of red that forms when he secures the cloth around his hand once more. 

He should try and get some sleep tonight. If they rise at nine or later he can at least slip in some five odd hours of sleep. Enough to avoid total exhaustion. And he's run on less before. It's fine. This is fine. He's _fine_. It's under control. 

_’If this is what ‘under control’ looks like, then I fear for the opposite.’_

Dislodging the ghost in his skull is as easy as a shake of his head. He knows it will be back though. It always comes back eventually. He'll just chase it away again tomorrow, alongside everything else. 

When he slinks back into the room, Nott is still fast asleep, Frumpkin curled up alongside her, peeking over the slumbering goblin to pin him with too-bright eyes. Caleb eyes the cat, grimacing at the loud creak of the door's hinges as it swings shut behind him. Thankfully, Nott doesn't rise, and he manages to slide back under the sheets without issue. 

He's well aware of the headache he's going to be harboring tomorrow, but at least it's easier to close his eyes and not think. Unfortunately, he couldn't achieve the desired effect with alcohol alone, and maybe that's the worst part of it. Or maybe, it's the fact that it's still a terribly long time before he drifts off, to the sound of the rhythmic breathing curled up at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“The pull on my flesh was just too strong_   
>  _Stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_   
>  _Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_   
>  _'Cause when I open my body I breathe a lie.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  “Broken Crown” - Mumford and Sons


	2. false confidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't take yourself so seriously,  
> Look at you all dressed up for someone you never see"
> 
>  _'False Confidence'_ \- Noah Kahan
> 
> And thank you to Tommy for beta reading this chapter. <3

Molly still remembers the first time Gustav caught him slinking back into the main tent just before a show. The way the half elf's eyes had immediately jumped to the patches of bruising on his throat, to the man's barely amused tight-lipped smile. His words stick out even more so in the memory,  as the man had dragged him aside with a gentle cuff to the ear, less of a reprimand and more of an acknowledgment that he knew exactly what had caused Molly to be late. 

_‘You're young, sleeping around is what you do, but please, just _please_ be careful where you put your things, Molly.’_

It had been a warning in health rather than heart, but the sentiment feels applicable now, as he tries not to stare at the wizard at the other table. He's really not doing a very good job at it. Caleb's back is towards him and he's too far away to see the pattern of freckles on the nape of his neck, but he knows they're there. Remembers lacing his fingers behind the other's neck, trailing one hand down to the buckle of Caleb's belt and the other up to tangle into that mess of auburn. Teeth dragging at his bottom lip, a warfare of tongues and lips, and the wizard's hands hot and searing on his hips as Caleb boxed him in against the door. 

Molly only looks away when he notices Nott narrowing her eyes at him from around the wizard, who is currently preoccupied with keeping Jester from doodling in the margins of his spellbook. 

_‘And don't get attached. For the love of the gods, Molly, don't get attached.’_

“Well...,” he mutters, staring into the trost the tavern-hand dropped off over half an hour ago now, “failed that one.” 

He's not attached, per say, but it's definitely _something_ , because it won't leave him alone. 

The grating, strangled squeal of chair legs denotes the arrival of others to his lonely little table, and he doesn't protest the monk who settles in next to him. She takes up residence where a very different woman would usually sit, and he's momentarily glad for at least some kind of company. Fjord sits on the opposite side, settling heavily into the chair with a sigh, already drawling for the tavern hand.

Beau, on the other hand, says nothing. Instead, she just stares at him, and he doesn't even have to look over to know that-- he can practically feel her eyes digging into him. Molly sighs, choosing to ignore her for now, instead of asking what her problem is. Yasha’s been gone since the first night and he's really starting to miss her. 

“Hey.” Beau leans into his space and he waves her off without looking at her, only wincing when she jabs the side of his neck.

“What's that?” She does it again and he bats her arm away with a grimace, shooting her a sharp glare. 

“Can you be unpleasant somewhere else?” 

“Nah.” She settles back with crossed arms and a nose-wrinkling smirk.  “And I'm curious... Is it a hickey?” 

Molly blanches and while he has nothing to be ashamed of here, he really doesn't feel like sharing his escapades with her.   

“It is, isn't it? So is that what you got up to after we nearly got jailed?” 

He neglects to jibe at her for not noticing it the entirety of yesterday, or the way he was walking with a bit more of a hitch in his step than he should have. Or that he also hovered close to Caleb nearly the entire time. But the wizard seems reluctant to broadcast their little affair and so he deigns not to spill. 

“For the record, you nearly got jailed too.” 

“Uhm, I'm pretty sure _you_ were the one in chains first.” 

“Yes, but not because I ran off to do something _stupid_.” 

Beau slams the bottom of her trost down on his hand, liquid sloshing past the rim, splashing across the table and his hand pinned beneath it. “Say I'm stupid again,” she grits out, and there's a challenge in her eyes. 

“You're--”

“ _Children._ ” Fjord settles down his trost a little heavier than necessary, effectively cutting Molly off. “Are we done squabbling?” 

Beau removes the mug almost reluctantly, grumbling and drinking, while Molly wipes his hand off with a grimace. He sends her a sharp look she misses, but it's the thought that counts.

“Isn't it a bit early to start?” The half-orc raises a brow at her.

“If we're going frog gigging I can't be completely sober.” She finishes off the trost, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “That's just tradition.” 

“Tradition for who? Whoever or whatever those colors stand for?” Fjord asks pointedly.

Beau sneers, poking at the trost and ducking her head. “Nah, just me.” 

“So…. you're a free agent then?” Molly asks, and while he's not overly concerned about where she came from or her past, he is curious if she's currently part of any group-- and whether they kicked her out or she left. 

“Oh, look who's getting nosy.” She turns to him with a wry laugh. “Tell me more about how you're related to a demon that lives in an ice volcano, Mister Truthful.” 

Molly sputters for a moment before composing himself. “First of all, it's an _ice_ demon in a _regular_ volcano.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, honest mistake,” she drawls sarcastically, settling back in her chair, pierced brow raised, “and remind me again, what was your whole spiel about priests, sacrifices, and fancy swords?” 

“Beau,” Fjord warns and the monk waves him off. 

“Hey,” Molly starts, eyeing her up and down, “at least I'm not all shady and shifty like you.” 

Beau sneers. “You're literally the shitftiest motherfucker I've ever met.”

“She…has a point,” Fjord reluctantly agrees, and Molly can't really blame them. It's the carnie charm, probably. 

“This?” He gestures to his coat, snapping the collar and readjusting the sleeves with a showman's flourish. “You think this is shifty?” 

“Honestly,” Fjord starts, “you look like you would sell me a poorly, premised pyramid scheme with a heaping side of snake oil.” 

Molly mock gasps, holding a hand over his heart and trying his damndest to look genuinely taken aback. “I would _never._ ” 

“Mhm.” Beau hums, swiping Molly's trost before he can stop her and taking a swig. 

“And speaking of shifty…” Fjord continues, “where'd your big friend get off to?” 

“Yasha?” 

The half-orc nods. 

“She's ah, well… she comes and goes. She'll be back.” Hopefully. 

“You and her aren't like… a--” 

Molly cuts Beau off with an embarrassingly loud laugh. Slightly surprised she even got that impression in the first place. Him and Yasha are close, have even briefly been _very_ close, but good friends is a comfortable position for both of them to stay at. “Not quite.”

“Oh, cool, cool… good to know.” 

“Why?” Molly asks, cocking his head and smiling knowingly. “You interested in her?” 

“Ahah, no.” 

“Really?” 

“I think she has a type, and its women that can throw her,” Fjord pipes up, “you shoulda seen her when Jester was handling that snake.  Practically forgot how to fight.” 

“Uh,”Beau turns to face the half-orc, teeth grit. “Shut. The. Hell. Up. _Fjord._ ” 

The half-orc shrugs, turning back to his food and drink with a small, amused grin. 

“I can respect that sentiment.” Molly winks at Beau, sending her a sharp smirk that she answers with a grimace. “And Yasha has _very_ firm hands, just so you know.” 

“Gods.” Beau’s forehead drops to the table with a loud thunk and she keeps herself buried in her arms. He would pat her on the back for good measure, and to drive the point home, but he's pretty sure she can snap his wrist faster than he can blink. 

“Hey,” Fjord starts, “where's that homeless fella and the goblin gone, by the way? They didn't up and skedaddle last night did they?” 

Molly deadpans, pointing to the table a little ways away. “You need your eyes checked or something.’

The half-orc colors. “I'm busy eating!” 

“You're telling me you couldn't hear Jester’s giggling from here?” 

“Let alone smell Caleb?” Beau mutters into her crossed arms on the table. 

Molly rolls his eyes. “He doesn't actually smell that bad you know. It's just a bit of dirt, not horse shit like what seems to come out of your mouth.”

Beau shoots up from her slump, twisting to jab a finger at him. “Oh, thats rich--” 

“Uh...why were you smelling him?” Fjord interjected.

“--coming from you. I saw what you did at the carnival. Tricking those people with your little cards and fancy words. At least i dont give people false hope.” 

“It's not false hope if it’s advice they need.” Molly says, delicately ignoring Fjord's question, “you would be surprised how easy it is to read what people need to hear.”

“Are you sure you don't just tell them what they want to hear?” 

“For some people what they want _is_ what they need. I just... indulge them.” 

“Oh, so you're a liar then?” 

“I'm _whatever_ you want me to be,” he purrs, leaning forward and snatching his drink back from her, “but don't pretend like everyone at this table isn't a liar as well. I don't need to do any reading to know that. “ 

Fjord pauses his eating, keeping his head down, and Beau glances away from him.

“Hey, you guys!” 

Molly rubs at his ear, but offers a smile to the blue tiefling sliding into the chair beside Fjord. “Morning, dear.” 

There's a small gasp from her, and her eyes are practically sparkling where she's just gaping at him.“Are you wearing makeup?” she leans closer, mouth formed into an awed little ‘o’. 

“Why, yes, thank you for noticing.” He bats his eyes for good measure, grinning, tail curling, pleased at least someone noticed. “These two obviously don't appreciate the struggles I go through to look this good, but I’m glad you do dear.” 

She clasps the side of her face. “Will you do my makeup sometime?” 

“Of course.” he smiles, but he's not sure quite how long this arrangement and this group will last. He doesn't have the heart to tell her no, not when she's making that face. 

_‘Don't get attached.’_

He's doing a real bang up job at that. He knows they'll all have to leave eventually. That he'll have to go too. This can't last forever, it never does. Like skipping from town to town; always new faces, never the same ones, just ghosts in his head that he'll probably never see again. 

It's only worse when Caleb silently slips into a chair at the table as well, Nott following suit. Settling beside Beau who side eyes both of them and Molly tries to meet Caleb's eyes, but the wizard is determined to stay buried in his book. He wants to reach over and tap the tome, catch his attention, garner some kind of acknowledgment that he didn't just imagine things--

“I drew a dick in it you know.” Jester stage-whispers, pointing towards the tome. 

“Did you now?” 

She stifles a giggle behind her hand. “He doesn't know yet.”

With how loudly she's whispering he's sure Caleb's figured it out, but he'll go along with her game. “I'm sure his reaction will be delightful.” 

Molly wouldn't protest seeing the creeping blush on the wizard's cheeks and neck again, that's for sure. He keeps his eye on Caleb, watches for his reaction. Maybe the man will even look up at him again and he'll see those vibrant, nearly-too-bright ceruleans and-- why is Jester staring at his neck? Molly reaches up to cover the point she's staring at, realizing too late what turning his head probably revealed to her. 

“Is that a hickey?” she asks, blinking  owlishly, tilting her head, and the picture is akin to a confused puppy.  

He's not sure why they're just now noticing it when it's been a bit of time since he got it. Maybe because it's the first time they've all really sat down and talked since that first night, and it's tucked up, nearly under his jaw. The rasp of stubble and the pliable warmth of lips against his throat still very much incessant in his head and a clear reminder of how he got it in the first place. 

“Well--”

The sharp clap of parchment cuts off his reply and he looks over to see Caleb pushing his chair out and standing. 

“I will be at the book shop.” The man turns, hesitating and considering something before tersely adding over his shoulder. “Come get me when we actually plan on leaving to handle this fiend.”

And like that he's gone, making his way out of the tavern, Nott swiping a piece bacon from Beau's plate before she scurries after him. Jester's question fades into the background of the silence that settles over the table, the atmosphere shifted from the beginnings of camaraderie to a terse and tense understanding here. None of them have known each other for very long, and this only serves as a reminder of that. 

“I don't trust those two.” Beau sniffs, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. 

“I think they're just a bit awkward maybe, but they're nice at least.” Jester adds, fiddling with her fork, and staring after where they've gone.

“They're both hiding something.” Fjord mutters under his breath and Molly raises his brow at him. 

“Aren't we all?”

No one answers him. 

He gestures to their platters, the awkward silence grating on his nerves. “Now come on, let's finish this meal and go nab ourselves a toad.”

\-------

He learned a couple things during that fight.

Caleb is squishier than a lot of them-- and the wizard makes the most interesting sound when he's yanked back to safety by that book harness he wears.

Molly had been keeping out of range at first, trying to assess a way to pull Toya to safety, while also trying to see if there was a way to maybe _not_ kill a member of the circus he's only ever known as family. Kylre may not be as old as some in his memory, or as poignant, but he had been there longer than this new gaggle of odd individuals. 

It had been nearly reflexive to stay close to the wizard during the fight, usually Yasha would be his go to, but his potential fuck buddy had to do. Molly couldn't tell if the man was annoyed, oblivious, or just vehemently determined to ignore him, but Caleb didn't lay a single eye on him the entire time they journeyed from the town to the island. The only time those crisp, baby blues rolled to him was when Molly had reached forward, curled his fingers in the o-ring settled between Caleb's shoulder blades, and yanked as hard as he could; narrowly saving the wizard from being bludgeoned by a crumbling old building and an angry devil toad. 

The noise Caleb had made was unique, between a sharp yelp and a keen, and while the rest of the fight continued around them, everything had paused, for Molly at least. In the low light it had been hard to make out the color exactly, but Molly could have sworn, by the Moonweaver herself even, that Caleb's face had flushed a candied red. 

The wizard had finally acknowledged him then too. Wide-eyed at first, with Molly's hand still caught in the harness, Caleb's face had turned from surprise to annoyance in an instant. Eyes narrowed, and despite his blown-out pupils and parted lips, his mouth then pressed into a thin line as he jerked out of Molly's grip and went on to continue the fight, without even a thank you.

The abrupt change had been disappointing, to say the least. Molly had been even more disgruntled by the way Caleb went back to avoiding and ignoring him again afterwards. With his arms full of Toya, trying to keep her calm and avoid the grisly decapitated head of her friend in the dingy, it had been hard to recapture Caleb's seemingly fleeting and hard earned attention.

But now, with Toya returned to the others, a plan to bargain for Gustav and Bo's freedom tomorrow, all they have left to do tonight is drink and celebrate. 

The tavern owner, and even the townspeople, try to insist on purchasing their drinks for them, but Molly isn't having that, and he slips silvers to whoever buys them drinks when he can. Sidling close and slipping the coins in pockets and pouches, reverse stealing he supposes, but these people don't have to pay them back for a mistake the carnival overlooked. He still doesn't think Gustav deserves to be in jail for it, nor did the crownsguard have to react so harshly off the bat, but some of their fear and frustration is understandable. It has been a weird couple of days for sure, weirder than any he's experienced with just the carnival, and that's a high bar to beat. Needless to say, he's having quite the time with it, and he only wishes Yasha were here to celebrate with him. 

It's waned closer to late evening when he notices Caleb has relegated himself to a corner table, removed from the rest of the celebration. And while Molly isn't as lost in his cups as last time, he still wouldn't deny a small, more personal, celebration of his own with the man. 

He slides into the chair opposite Caleb and the wizard doesn't even look up or acknowledge anyone's decided to approach him. Molly has to stop the annoyed flick of his tail at being ignored even now, with everything else being over and out of the way. 

“Hello there,” he starts, not-so-subtly trying to poke at Caleb-- to at least get the wizard to look up at him. 

“Hallo.” Caleb doesn't even raise his head, just mutters the greeting towards his tome. 

This isn't his best reception, admittedly. Caleb seems all too determined to keep his head bowed, eyes averted, auburn hair acting as a curtain between them.

“That was quite the spat, wasn't it?” Molly tries not to cringe at his own attempt at conversation, but he's grasping at whatever he can to try and get the wizard engaged, to at least notice him. 

“It was.” Still the same dry tone, still no acknowledgment beyond gruffly cordial. 

He notices Caleb has his coat on again, having shed it during their search and the fight before, and Molly's almost disappointed to see it back on. He rather enjoyed being able to see the book harnesses in full. He would also quite like to see him in even less if he can, but this isn't going very well at all.

“Did you…” He trails off, unsure how to ask, or even what he's asking. And gods, he _really_ wishes Yasha were here. 

“Did you need something, Mollymauk?” Caleb grits it out, but at least he’s looking up at him now.

This, at the very least, reinvigorates some measure of confidence in him, and he thinks that might as well try this again.

“That's a tricky question.” He reaches out, resting a hand over the one Caleb has curled around his trost.

Molly easily slides the cup out of the wizard's grip, sure to let his fingers linger for a spell too long, feeling the jump of muscles and tendons beneath his palm as he lets his claws drag against freckled skin. He takes a moment to drink from it before setting it back down, tongue swiping across his bottom lip and catching on a fang. And he definitely doesn't miss the way Caleb hones in on the motion.  

“And it depends,” he purrs, toying with the rim of the trost and doing his damndest not to drown in bright baby blues. There's a tic in Caleb's jaw, the man's pupils edging towards nearly too dilated to be uninterested here.

“On what?” The man finally grits out and Molly leans closer, pulls the book out from under Caleb's hand and shuts it. 

“If you need the same thing as well.” He's sitting flush to the table now, close enough he can count every freckle, see the slight cracks to pale pink lips, barely parted, and the way Caleb's eyes have turned to idly flicking over him. And Molly knows there's at least something here-- that he hasn't read too far into this. 

He reaches forward, brushes aside the fur-lined edge of the man’s coat, waits for the wizard to stop him, halt his progress here, turn him down-- but no fingers catch his wrist to keep him from reaching the shoulder strap of the harness. Caleb doesn't even stop him when he hooks his fingers under it and rubs his thumb over the rough hewn leather, eyes flicking back up to the wizard's as he gently tugs at it. 

And those bright blues are locked on him now, but they're nearly distant, like he's seeing something else-- _someone_ else. And Molly withdraws enough to let the man breathe, settling back in his chair, but he still rests his hand close enough to the other's that he can feel the warmth from him. 

He's not blind and he's not wholly unobservant, even if decisions he's made in the past would suggest otherwise. 

He hadn't missed the way Caleb wasn't all there during the first time. Even drunk off his ass and hammered in more ways than one, Molly still noticed that far away glaze to his eyes when Caleb had pulled back from that first kiss in the hall. But it had snapped away as quickly as it had appeared, and it had been a bit hard to contemplate or consider more with the wizard's teeth on his throat. And later, even in the ways Caleb worked him over once they finally managed to stumble into the room; it had all been nearly routine, maybe passionate, but mostly just desperate. And when they had finally gotten down to it, Caleb's fingers had curled around his side, dug into his ribs until he whined, and held on like he might disappear, like he needed something to keep him grounded-- and all he had in that moment was the body he was fucking. And Molly gets that, he understands that sentiment all too well. 

He knows what Caleb wants. He can see that the man wants some mindless distraction. That's fine. Like he told Beau, he can be whatever people want, because sometimes what people really need is harder-- hurts them more in the long run. And he's all for some no strings attached fun, and how convenient if it's someone in this party really. They'll leave soon anyways, they always do. But while they're here he can at least do something about it. 

“I do not _need_ anything.” Caleb all but jerks out of arm's length, scooping up his book and shoving it back into its holster with all the stilted motion of a marionette tugged on strings. 

And if Molly wasn't left blinking stupidly at the sudden about-face, he might ask why the wizard’s hands are shaking, or why he looks like he's two steps from vomiting on himself, when a few seconds ago Molly could have sworn he had the same look in his eye as that first night. Caleb walks away, nearly stumbles in his haste, and Molly can't explain why his chest hurts at the rejection. 

It's not a big deal, there's plenty of people in this tavern he can turn to. All he has to do is get up and look for someone else. There's plenty of fish in the sea, and all of that nonsense. 

Instead, he sits at the table, stares at the trost Caleb abandoned, and listens to the raucous sounds of revelry around him.  

A good chunk of time passes and his window of opportunity closes with the celebration slowing to a crawl as the tavern owner shoos the rowdier bunches out. Molly looks over to see the others still drinking though, Nott and Beau shouting something at each other as Jester and Fjord look on, and he's not really in the mood to wander over and mesh in with them right now. Yasha’s still gone, Gustav’s still in jail, he doesn't have anyone to fuck around with right now, and he's not nearly as drunk as he would like to be, but he really doesn't want to spend the rest of the night getting there. 

He slinks upstairs, pauses in front of the room he knows Nott and Caleb are sharing-- and continues on, to his own room instead of checking in on the wizard, even if a part of him still contemplates making sure the man's at least okay after his hasty retreat. 

It's not his place. He barely knows this man. Nott will be up soon and the two seem close-- he'll be fine. 

Molly's laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling (and not thinking about a certain pair of blue eyes), dressed in his usual night wear of absolutely nothing atop the sheets, when Fjord stumbles in. The half-orc knocks the door against the wall with a loud thud and Molly tilts his head to glare at him, unamused by the racket. The man seems to freeze, going rigid, eyes flicking down the length of him, to his face, and back down, before finally snapping up to the ceiling, cheeks colored a deeper green than usual. 

“Jesus, Molly...” 

“What?”, he asks innocently, rolling up to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Warn a guy, will ya?” 

“What?” He rises, and he can see the way Fjord hesitates at taking a step back, the near flinch the half-orc suppresses when the door finally clicks shut behind him. “You don't sleep _a la nude_?” 

“N-no,” the half-orc says, still avoiding looking at him.  “What if something happens and we have to leave quickly. You're gonna be caught buck ass naked in your birthday suit.” 

“And?” He takes a step closer. 

“You really just… you don't have much shame do you?”

“What's the fun in that?” He asks with another step, tail flicking behind him. “Plus I've heard I'm quite the sight to behold.” 

Fjord finally glances back down to him, clears his throat and swallows heavily, and the man's nervousness is oddly amusing somehow. “Ah… I-- I'm sure people’ve said that before, but I don't reckon--” Molly raises a brow at him and Fjord stammers. “Wha--what I mean is--” 

“What is it Fjord?” Molly cocks a hip, tilting his head and smirking. “Cat got your tongue?” 

“ _Nope_.” 

Molly takes another step closer, closing the gap until there's little more than a warm body's space between them. “Are you sure?” 

He could fuck around with him if the other wanted. Everyone in this party is damn well attractive enough. And he's heard some orcish types even have knots-- but Fjord retreats and Molly lets him.

“Yup, mhm, ‘m sure.” Fjord squeaks out quickly, eyes glued back to the ceiling as he stiffly turns and makes his way to his bunk. 

“Good night, Fjord,” he purrs after him, slightly disappointed, and the man says nothing in return, just sheds his armor and quickly hides himself under the covers.  

It's far too easy to poke at that one. 

And rather interesting to find that the half-orc is so perturbed by any matter that involves nudity. He wouldn't have pegged Fjord as the shy type, but this party is full of surprises, it seems. 

He certainly never expected the resident wizard, covered head to toe in dirt, and with nearly every inch of him wrapped in some form of fabric, to be down to do anything with _him_ , that's for sure. But when Molly had approached him that first night, teased him more out of boredom and a need to do something (and because the man is admittedly attractive under all the gruff) other than wallow in the fact that the carnival was in shambles and Gustav jailed, he had never anticipated the wizard to actually reciprocate-- and so enthusiastically, at that. It was like Molly had offered him the perfect opportunity when he pushed that book aside, and all but draped himself in the wizard's lap.

He had expected to be pushed off, turned down, maybe even reprimanded, or yelled at-- and he would have easily backed off, but he hadn't expected the fingers that had curled around his wrist and pulled him up the stairs. Nor had he really anticipated how much control the wizard would take, but it hadn't been an unpleasant surprise or an unwelcome development. 

So why didn't it work this time around?  

Maybe he read the situation wrong. Maybe he read the wizard wrong. People can be tricky, they're not as straightforward as tarot cards, which can be veiled and confusing in their own right. But people are muddled and sloppy and admittedly he's only known these particular people for a little over three days now.

Maybe this is a bit more complicated than he thought.  

And he really would have at least liked to have worked out his post battle jitters in some constructive way. Preferably with another warm body. But now he's here-- _alone_ , staring up at the ceiling overhead and doing far too much thinking for his liking. 

Fjord's rather sudden, and loud, snoring breaks the silence and he thinks he recalls the half-orc briefly mentioning he worked on ships. So, either the man can sleep through a hurricane or he's dealt with galley mates jerking one out in close quarters. Either way, Molly doesn't really stop to consider _not_ doing something about the tension under his skin when he hears Fjord’s snores rumble into existence. 

He closes his eyes and starts off slow. Trails a hand over his collar bone, holds an image in his head, and sticks with it as he slides it lower. It's as nondescript as ever, just a warm body at first, nameless hands and a faceless figure in his mind's eye. The skin quickly turns freckled and pale, flushed an enticing red, a contrast to his own fuschia-stained violet where he imagines the figure straddled over his thighs. A warm phantom weight that he knows full well isn't there, but it doesn't stop him from wanting it to be. 

He curls a spit-slick hand around himself and muffles his answering whine with the heel of his other hand. Hips buck up into his grip, he huffs, gives small, hitching pants as he works himself over. Runs more idle fingers over his chest, imagines they’re slightly longer, spindly; calloused and ink stained. Toughened and rough in all the right places where they splay over him and search out everywhere that make him mewl. Molly bites his lip, twisting his hand on his cock, just so, as he licks a long stripe up to his index finger on the other, and slides two fingers in between his parted, gasping lips. Holds them there, forked tongue writhing beneath them, hand working faster over his cock in turn. Imagines blunt nailed ones slipping back until he gags, wishes he had more fingers to choke on other than his own as he draws them back, spits into his palm, and switches his hands roles. 

He resumes his steady ministrations easily, pace picking up in time with the maddening staccato of his heart. Tail writhing, legs spreading, toes curling against the sheets, spine arching and back tensing as he searches for even more friction, more heat-- just _more_. A low moan catches on his ribs and smolders under his skin, and he thinks about how calloused hands would feel against every ridge of his cock, curled around his throat, hooking in his mouth and searching, pressing down on his tongue, caught between his teeth. He wonders how Caleb's mouth would feel, closed around him, warm, hot, wet-- he jerks up into his fist with a whine at the picture he's painted for himself; those pretty, pink-stained lips, always worried and colored between the wizard's teeth. 

He wonders if Caleb would kneel for him, or lean over him, trap Molly's thighs beneath his hands, slide them up to caress oddly gentle thumbs over his hips. Hold him down against the sheets and lick a long, fire-hot stripe up the length of him before closing his lips over the head and sinking down. And gods, Molly knows those robin-blues would be damn illegal, staring up at him from under auburn lashes. Caleb would keep Molly's hips pinned down, but he wouldn't protest the hand tangled in his hair, the claws scraping into his scalp, guiding the pace, letting Molly fuck his throat. Molly can practically see Caleb reaching down to jerk himself off while he lets his mouth be used however Molly pleases. And gods, it would be quick, sparks lancing under his skin, holding Caleb in place so he can feel the other swallow around him, _tight_ , the slip of a tongue against the underside, gods-- and a hand, as heated and feverish as the rest, caressing over his balls as the tangled knot in his stomach draws tight, impossibly tight and he--

He comes with a cry muffled into his fist, teeth dug into his knuckles, fingers pumping over himself until the last dribbling splatter of cum falls against his heaving abdomen and fingers. 

“Fuck…” 

The rush of blood in his ears is loud, heart thudding an incessant pattern against his sternum as his breathing slowly events out. Limbs restless and listless at the same time as he cleans himself up, turning his head to see Fjord faced away from him on the opposite bunk. The sound of continued, intermittent snoring all too telling of how much the half orc missed-- or the man is just a very convincing liar. Either way, it's hard to really care or feel ashamed if Fjord heard him anyways.

He doesn’t want to consider the fact that he might have said Caleb’s name out loud at some point during that, as he turns over onto his side and tries not to think about how fucked he is.


	3. sober

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a shadow just behind me  
> Shrouding every step I take  
> Making every promise empty  
> Pointing every finger at me"
> 
> "Sober"- Tool

The sound of his boots on the stairs is swallowed up by the stampeding rush of blood in his ears as he stumbles his way up them. 

All he can think about is the way Molly's fingers had dragged at the harness. How there's probably light bruising, a bit of redness at his shoulders from where Molly had yanked him to safety during the fight earlier this evening. How he bought this harness from a shop that intended it for that purpose, but he rigged it up for a more practical use. Scuffed it and dirtied it so it didn't look like much beyond what it was made into. And Molly had curled his finger into the ring at the back anyways, pulled so suddenly Caleb had lost his breath. 

It wasn't that he even liked being tugged around, but the burn of the leather biting into his arms had snapped down his spine in a lick of fire. And he had turned away, pretended it didn't happen, hoped Molly would leave it alone, let this die so he didn't have to pick it apart later. 

But the tiefling had slid into the seat across from him, stumbled his way into something like confidence, and pulled at the harness again. Tugged at it with just enough force to draw Caleb forward, and all he had been able to think in that instant was a simpering _‘please.’_ Seen the alluring dance of candlelight across tanned and freckled skin, felt the rough-hewn bite of ropes wound around his arms, and Astrid standing over him--

And he had snapped at Molly once he realized, bit out the words like venom, dripping and caustic, hoping it would burn. Leaving the tiefling numb and paralyzed to his seat, long enough that he could escape up the stairs, put a barrier between him and the option--  the offer, laid out before him.

His heel catches on the top step and he fumbles, catching himself with the banister, fingers tapping against his thigh and back tensed. The constant skitter under his skin is a near incessant burn the further it creeps up his spine as he makes his way down the hall. Heated fingers linger on the cool press of the brass knob on the door, glancing over his shoulder, before slinking inside. 

He immediately lists against the closed door with a jerky huff of air, stares up at the ceiling, counts his breathes and digs his nails into the grain of the wood until his skin crawls with the unpleasant march of formless ants. It's a few moments before he raises a trembling hand, snaps Frumpkin back to him, the click a loud rasping clap in his ears that he clings to as he tries his damndest to focus on the fey. 

The cat rubs along his ankles and twines about his feet-- and it's nothing like the way that forked tongue had drug along plum-dipped lips and caught on a spit-slick fang; dark, dangerous, viper-like. An adder waiting under the rotting floorboards, and he was stupid enough to have given it a chance, given it a taste. He let it sink its teeth into his ankle, and now it wants his throat too. 

And the sheer notion, the inkling that he would let him have it-- the reminder he even let himself lose that kind of control in the first place, has him tremoring against the door. He cards a shaking hand through his hair, tugs at the strands until his scalp sings, screws his eyes shut against the same damned image of fangs, of claws, and horns, and stained violet. Of something that can hurt him, tear him apart if he just asked it to. 

He slides to the floor, legs slowly giving beneath him, Frumpkin settling atop his thighs once he's left slumped against the door. Head knocked back, hiding his gaze up in the ceiling, counting the boards overhead in time with his breath. He scrubs at the scruff, the overgrowth of hair on his jaw, palms at his lips and sighs. 

  _One... two... seven...twenty-five-- _Why does he still want any of this? _Thirty-two. Thirty-Three_. He's better than this, above this-- the warmth curling low in his abdomen and demanding, wanting, needing-- _Forty-six___

__He digs his teeth into the heel of his palm, clenches his jaw until it's the only thing he can feel. Eyes still devouring the ceiling, counting, and counting. _Fifty-five._. He needs something; just a touch, just a distraction. He just needs something… _Fifty-six… fifty-seven...fifty-eight…__ _

__It's a long while, the clock in his head ticking away as he stares at the panes of the window on the far side of the room-- finished counting floorboards some time ago._ _

__The glass is stained and muddied with fingerprints, the crisp indigo of night nestled amongst the leaning frames, and a spill of quiet silver has sliced in to creep across the floor towards him. Closer and closer still. Draped over his leg, like fingers wrapping around his ankles, his wrists, like ropes and tethers, and the harness biting into his back where he's pushed himself against the unyielding sentinel of the door._ _

__The distant sound of footsteps beyond the barrier breaks him away from the shine along the sill and he goes rigid. The distinct clap of a heeled boot, a familiar stride; heel-to-toe, confident and surly, loud where it can turn nimble and light. The tiefling's gait memorized, as Caleb has done with them all._ _

__Like silver wire and a spell stretched across a door, he knows which of them might be the one to cross it before they do. In case-- just in case, it never hurts to be safe, to make sure. To know what he might have to deal with if they decided to turn on him-- or Nott, if they crossed that threshold without him asking them to._ _

__Just in case._ _

__The light-toed, sure-heeled swagger pauses outside the door and all he can hear is his own harsh pants, fingers digging into his thighs to keep them from trembling. The brass knob is right there, and as beads of sweat slip down his back, tongue dry and teeth grit, he contemplates opening it. It's just one more night, one more notch, it's fine, it wouldn't mean anything. He just-- he needs--_ _

__He could open the door, drag him in, forget about everything for a while, make Molly forget that he even snapped at him in the first place. An empty apology in a clash of teeth and a ruinous expanse of skin._ _

__And it doesn't seem like the tiefling is leaving any time soon and Nott wants to stick with them, so it would be good to maintain some kind of level relations with everyone. That's how it works, doesn't it?  And if Molly wants something detached, mindless, and empty-- something fuckable-- that's fine._ _

__But it doesn't always work like that. There's never no strings attached. People always want something out of it in return. He knows that, _he does that._ Money, food, a warm bed, a night out of the cold-- when the skin curling touch of some stranger is prefered to the frost bite that awaits him on the streets. Even lessons, a spell scroll, a tome he can't access yet, but if he says the right things, looks the right way, does what hes told and plays his part; it's _his._  _ _

__Sometimes, and with all the ways he hates to admit it, it's just a warm hand on the side of his face, a scrap of intimacy amongst all of it. It's worth it for even that shred of closeness, that tiny speck of being meaningful somewhere, being _something_ to someone, before it's all regret and guilt. And him curled up in the wake of it, wanting to peel his skin off starting with every patch of bruises they've left on him. Wanting to carve the words they panted into his skin out until he's just some raw, formless heap._ _

__Needing to, at the least, crawl free of this body and all of it's needless desires and wants, and the things he wishes he didn't trail after like some dog in heat. Messy, sloppy, pitiful--_ _

__Caleb shakes his head, fingers dug into his thighs like a vice. He does not need Mollymauk Tealeaf._ _

__He lets the muffled click of heels fade away behind the door, realizes the opportunity has passed too late and that he's let it slip through his fingers._ _

__Getting any sleep tonight will be impossible. He can feel it in the tip-toe skitter up his spine, like fingers splaying over his shoulders and holding firm, nails biting into his skin, talons digging into his back-- and none of it is real, yet he can't help but wish it was so he could stop thinking about it._ _

__Frumpkin kneads at his thigh, a low, rumbled _mrow_ that draws his hand to the cat's scruff without thinking, and he muses his fingers through the fey's fur. Stands on legs that all but wobble beneath him, bundles the fey close to his chest and saps what comfort he can from the feline as he settles on the mattress, and stares at the door. _ _

____

x

It's quite some time later-- an hour if he's timed it right, and he knows he has, when the door creaks open. Candle colored eyes reflect the dancing lights Caleb's conjured to brighten the space. Spellbook perched in his lap, but he hasn't read or written a word since he pulled it out over half an hour ago. He's just looked down at the same mark, and then back to the door, seconds ticking away into minutes, and the cycle hasn't broken until now. 

“Caleb?” Nott asks, stepping inside, the door clicking shut behind her. Her footing is a bit wobblier than usual, but she can hold her drinks better than most. 

“Hm?” He hums, glancing up from the book, like he's actually been absorbed in the pages this whole time and not mindlessly tracing over the stray ink mark or the shine of brass on the door.

“You were talking to Molly and bolted, and I--” She glances down, frowning, before looking back up at him with pinched eyes. “Are you okay?” 

He's not surprised she noticed. She keeps a closer eye on him than he thinks sometimes. Keener and sharper than most might expect a goblin to be, and sometimes she sees things he wishes she didn't. At least, so he wouldn't have to lie to her later. 

_‘Where'd you get the food, Caleb?’ she asked as he shut the door behind him._

_‘Don't worry about it.’_

_‘But you didn't have money yesterday and you--’_

_‘I stole it.’ He didn't._

_She frowned, ears turned down. ‘I could've helped if you just--’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Well...are you okay at least?’_

“I'm fine, Nott.” He gives her a small smile over the tome and wants to throw up at the contented wriggle of her ears at his lie. “It was just a misunderstanding.” 

She nods, clambering up onto the bed beside him. There's two beds, but this is the arrangement they're both used to now. “So you two are fine then?” 

“Ja, ‘we're fine.’” he echoes, keeping his eyes on the writing in the tome, the scrawled musings tangling up into nothing on the page. 

“Good,” she mutters, curling up beside him. 

He snuffs out three of the four lights and the room falls into creeping shadows. She turns, pulling the sheets tight over her shoulder, ear pressing flatter to her skull as she looks up at him out of the corner of her eye.

 “You know…" she starts, sharp teeth worrying at her lip for a moment. "I was hoping to stick around with them, to the next town at least, but if you don't… if you're not sure you like them, or if--if  you want us to split off and head out on our own, I'll go with you.” 

He ducks his head, thumb tracing over the deckled edges of the tomes pages. “We can stay with them, Nott.” 

She turns again, the tension in her shoulder falling away as she hums a sleepy, notably slurred, affirmation into the sheets. It's not long before he hears her breathing dip and even out where she's curled up. He watches her for a quiet moment, the relaxed tilt to usually perked and sloping ears a noticeable change from how the goblin usually sleeps. 

Tense and wary even in the midst of slumber, sometimes shivering, when the nights got cold wherever they decided to hole up. But here, she seems nearly relaxed. Caleb turns his attention back to the spellbook, the inked words still lost where they swim about. 

He'll make this work.

 It's dangerous out there. Not just for him, but especially for her. If he is selfish about this, if he tells her he can't stay with them because of one mistake-- one tiny, little mistake that feels quite large-- then he will be responsible for whatever end she meets out there. And he can't live with that. He can't go back to living like that; always hungry and tired.

Starvation is hard to explain to others, but it's a lot like desperation-- and watching her wither and wane, the light dim and dull in her eyes. Curled up around her stomach and crying; quietly, muffled, as if he won't hear her. Tiny, whimpering, whining things that stabbed at him until he-- mangy and-half starved himself, too weak for manual labor, too feral for honest work-- found someone who didn't care what they fucked, as long as it didn't say no. And he didn't care that they fucked him, as long as they paid. 

And that's how it worked-- how it _still_ works. 

It's a simple economy, and works well for other matters as well. Like now, with this incessant, crawling, smoldering, heat under his skin. He trades away a night and he can go the next day without thinking about it. Sometimes, if he's lucky, days, a dry spell of a week if all is favorable. But he's stressed, this is stressful, _these people are stressful_. Entertaining, colorful, a circus in their own right, and he's nearly smiled more in the past two days than anytime recently from their antics, but stressful nonetheless. 

He _needs_ something to take the stress away--all of it away-- before it starts to gnaw at him, become harder to ignore and cover up, and the left over images burned behind his eyelids like an afterthought aren't helping. 

Caleb closes the tome, snuffs out the last of the lights and lets the dark creep back into the room. He settles down into the sheets, stares up at the moonlit ceiling and tries to think about anything else. But it's like venom has seeped into his veins, his heart tapping at his sternum with all the vigor it can muster. _Tap-tap-tap_ , right into every inch of his skull. 

Turning onto his side doesn't help, curling into the fetal position, digging his fingers into his scalp, and gritting his teeth until something creaks dangerously, does nothing either. It's all still there. 

He slips out from under the sheets, glancing back to Nott who's still asleep, thankfully helped along by the imbibements from down below. His feet turn to pacing before he can stop himself, fingers pulling at the bandages on his arms, dragging his nails over them. He ignores the sound of Frumpkin perking up where he stayed curled up on the mattress, instead digging at the hidden skin harder, frustrated mumblings leaving him when he only catches the rough scratch of fabric on his wrists. 

He must look half-mad. 

He should have just accepted the proposition earlier, it would've at least solved one problem and he-- 

He shakes his head. 

The door catches his eye, the brass shining, far too bright for how quietly lit the room is. He watches it, expects it to swing open, for the decision to be made for him so he doesn't have to stand here and say it was all him if he goes to it. 

It doesn't move. But he does, and the caress of metal sings under his palm as he grabs the door handle. Which, even wrapped as his hand is, sends a chill down his spine and the hair raising on the nape of his neck. Like eyes boring into his back, judging, slipping down the whole of him. From head to toe, all too knowing of what's curled up under his skin and what he's about to do.

He glances over his shoulder as the hinges squeal their protest. Nott doesn't rise as he steps into the hall, and the door clicks shut behind him. 


End file.
